Twilight Punishment
by My Dark Rosaline
Summary: Set before TP, and also a prequel to my story Twilight Messenger. One shot. Zant speaks out against Midna one too many times. Warning: contains a little violence.


**Title: Twilight Punishment.**

**Rating: Teen for violence.**

**Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess.**

**Pairing: Hints of one-sided Zant/Midna.**

**Disclaimer: Characters all belong to Nintendo, of course!**

**Warnings: A little violent – if you can't handle needles and lips meeting, you might want to turn back now.**

Summary: Set before TP, and also a prequel to my story Twilight Messenger. One shot. Zant speaks out against Midna one too many times.

Midna reigned as Queen in the Twilight. Her subjects trusted her utterly, for why should they not trust the one whom the Fierce Deity blessed? She was an apt ruler, a powerful magic user and a perfect example of all a Twili should be; she was the perfect leader for their people. Safety of the Twili came to her, as did the protection of the sacred artifacts of her people, and the remembrance of the Sheikah tribe. She preformed all to the best of her ability, and all within the Twilight were contented with her rule.

Well, all but one, it seemed.

Zant, a tall, powerful and more than slightly crazed Twili, often made his fluctuating voice heard about reclaiming the realm of Light to rule as only another branch of the Twilight. He screeched about their oppression, about how they should destroy those who had banished them to such a hostile and awful place, and not once did anyone heed him. Even the Fierce Deity turned his back to him, and Zant had been near to Midna in receiving his blessing. He was little more than a joke now; a disgraced Twili who seemed to sway to violence in a matter of moments was not to be paid much heed. Midna had warned him more than once of the consequences to his actions, but so far, nothing had been paid.

The Twilight Princess did in fact wish that nothing would be paid, for insane as Zant was, he could be intelligent, and could think in clear, concise patterns for settlements in the chaos of the Twilight. He was useful, and unless his madness took him completely, he would continue to be useful and no harm would be done to him.

Zant knew all of this: he was, after all, one of the main candidates for the throne. Had _he _been the one elected, oh yes, he would have harnessed the power of the Twilight Mirror and sent his people through and claimed the light world. Snivelling, snob-nosed, long-eared, freakishly eyed Hylian beasts that had forced them into this world. They lived and basked and lazed around in the world that should have been of the Twili!

Several of the Twili beside him were speaking in the low, hushed tone that was normal of most. He had blotted them out, but the doors opened and he looked up, expecting the beautiful Twilight Princess to appear, but it was not she. No, it was some of her half-Twili half-Sheikah Messengers, slinking into the room and flowing along the walls to take up their places. They jolted him from his reverie, and he looked at them, unblinkingly, cracking his neck. He truly disliked them; they were too quiet, too unobtrusive, almost no brute strength at all. If he had been the ruler, he would have made sure that they had that, oh yes, he would have…

He tore his eyes away from the Queen's apparently favourite – Dasenka or something like that – when the thing with diluted blood turned to regard him calmly. Advocate of the Queen's every breath, he had been the most obvious of the Messengers to show scorn towards Zant for his ideas. It was little more than a glance of his eyes that showed it, granted, but it was still infuriating that someone lower than he would consider himself better. He hissed slightly, causing the rather fat Twili beside him to start, and then edge away from him. He bared his teeth in a smile towards him and had his hair move from his face, tying it elaborately and elegantly once more at the nape of his neck.

The doors opened finally, and he looked up to indeed see the beautiful Queen Midna. He – and every other Twili around him – stood up and bowed to her as she approached. She returned the bow gracefully. Zant couldn't help but think that, although she was a fool and did not know what was truly best for the Twilight, she was indeed a beautiful woman. She was physically perfect to be Queen of their people.

"Sit." Midna said, taking her own seat at the head of the table. Zant was on her right, and another female Twili on her left. The Messengers stood around the room, unmoving. Everyone's attention was focused upon her, waiting to hear what she had to say.

She smoothed her hands over the table once, lighting up the turquoise engravings and causing the centre of the table to open up, drifts of it floating away into the Twilight. Another faint turquoise glow hummed, and then flickering into existence was an image of the Fused Shadows, unbroken and rotating, slowly. As they watched, deep cracks appeared along it, fragmenting it until it split into four pieces. Three of the four melted away to nothingness, leaving only the upper left half, as if it were some kind of tribal helmet. Zant could not see the relevance here; everyone knew that the Fused Shadows were fragmented and lost in the Light World. It mattered not at all.

Midna's voice rang out as they watched the remaining piece whirl and rotate, "The Fused Shadows, made for and by our ancestors." She said, her voice continuing to have that odd echoing quality even in such a crowded room. "They are fragmented now, and three of the four pieces are lost within the Light World." Zant kept his eyes on her, and he was sure – almost certain – that hers flickered towards him for a brief moment, as though wondering if it was right to go on with him present. His breath hitched and then quickened. What was she going to say? "I have thought about these pieces, and the power that they contain. Though the Light World means nothing to me, I dislike that it contains our relics." She looked down: again, Zant thought he saw her eyes flicker towards him, just for a moment, "Therefore, I am considering sending my Twilight Messengers," She gestured to the half bloods around the room, "Into that world to locate and bring back the three missing shards, to be placed in my care." Her heads was raised, and she looked at them all. "Your thoughts, my people?"

Zant saw his chance to persuade Midna to take the lands themselves, and not even have to bother moving the shards into the Twilight. He faltered before he opened his mouth, however, remembering Midna's last warning, that she would cut his hair and then make sure that he had a reminder of his blaspheme. The first may not have seemed too distressing, but normally, the Twili did not grow hair, and Zant, Midna and the Twili on Midna's left were the only three right now who had it. If it were cut – well, it would be like losing a limb. The Twilight Messengers did not count; they had soft hair that grew and did nothing but hang. It would most likely be one of them who would do the cutting, as well.

While he was thinking, another Twili, further down the table, had raised his hand to address Midna. "How will we send them in?" He had asked, his voice barely rising above a hiss, "We can only ever be shadows in that world. How could they help?"

"We are not completely of the Twili." The white haired Messenger, standing behind Midna, approached the table. Daishenka. He had a fierce face, the left side of it erupted with turquoise markings and black patches, giving him an almost demonic appearance. His voice was flat, and soft - purposefully so. He met the Twili's eyes and gave him a half-smile. "We retain the blood of the Sheikah tribes, and they could survive within the Light. Provided we wrapped our markings enough, I see no reason why we also could not."

Midna nodded her head, "The Sheikah also possess the ability to see what is truly there. As a result, I felt that they would be excellent for the subterfuge –"

"Subterfuge?"

All eyes turned to Zant. He had spoken before he could think; he could not help himself. They planned to infiltrate the place? And then simply leave again? Leave their usurpers and return to only half of what was meant to be theirs? How could Midna not see that? Could she not understand the outrage of what she was suggesting? "You finally agree to go to the Light world?" He said, his voice climbing an octave higher before cracking and going lower once more, "You finally agree to go, and – and you want to – to _sneak?" _He stood then, his arm snapping out as though he were a clockwork doll and pointing directly at her. "Are we rats or insects? Can we not simply _attack?_"

"Zant." There was warning in Midna's voice, and her eyes showed a pleading, almost. "Zant, stop this. You know I have no care for the Light world. They have theirs, and we have ours. It must be left at tha-"

"But we don't _have _ours, oh Twilight Princess!" He shrieked, his lips cracking into a wide grin before he twisted around, his arm held wide as if to show what they did have. "We have a _part _of ours! We _don't _have all of ours!"

"Zant."

"Send the Messengers in! By all means! Send them in! But _take what we deserve!"_

"Zant!" Midna stood as well. "Silence! We have no care for the world of Light any more! They have no care for us! We have what we need: a home, sacred traditions, and a god who cares for his people! Why do we need to take theirs as well, little though they are in comparison? Why should we even let them know that we grace them with our presence? The Messengers shall enter, secure the Fused Shadows, and then the Messengers shall _leave! _It is as simple as that!" She slammed her hands palm-down on the table, causing it to rock despite how large it was. "So yes! We will be the rats and insects to get what we _do _need from that world!"

"Oh, a fine speech, Rat Queen!" Zant spat at her. He could hear the hisses of shock and horror as he said the words, and yet he kept going on. "We have a chance! A chance to take what we need! Our god will help us do that! He has offered often enough!"

"Be silent, Zant!" Midna commanded, nothing but hard ice in her eyes and a steely danger to her voice. "Our god has asked for nothing of the sort! That is the world of his mothers, and though he proved himself to be far greater than they, he also proved that he loves them dearly enough not to harm their kind!"

"Then I _laugh _at him, because he is a _coward!" _Zant did indeed cackle at that, and he thrust out his finger once more to point at Midna. "A coward with a rat for his advocate!"

A dead silence rang out there, punctured only by Zant's odd yowling sounds. Midna stared at him for one icy, deadly moment, and then said, quietly and firmly, "Seize him."

Zant's laughter was cut short as Daishenka grabbed him under his arm and pulled him against him, pinning him until another Messenger grabbed his other arm, twisting it so that Zant, as flexible as he was, would find it impossible to break free. Zant stopped cackling and began to shriek, and even from his shrieks he could hear Midna as she spoke.

"Punish him."

He was dragged from the room, his eyes fixed on Midna's own, still beautiful even in their cowardly harshness, and he screeched as the doors closed on him. He wriggled in the grip of the Messengers, but they did not let him go. Almost breaking free of the other – a yellow-headed male called Daishan – caused Daishenka to twist his hand in Zant's hair and pull it mercilessly, as if he intended to rip it out. He screamed out his pain, and it was only then that he remembered the punishment that he would face.

"Let me free!" He hissed, "I'll never do it again! I will never speak against our Queen! Our god! I will do only as she and he demand!"

Daishenka snorted a laugh above him. "'Never again' is what you swore the time before, Zant." He shook his head. "You were warned. And warned, and warned! Now, it's too late; time to face the consequence." Without another word, even though Zant continued to scream and shriek, he was dragged out of the conference area, and down, down, underneath the palace, where he was thrown to the floor.

Idiots! Pushing himself up, he cracked his bones in and out of shape, and then leaped, as if to attack them. However, he was seized roughly in mid-air. Looking down, he saw one of the huge red and black trapping hands had grabbed him, and was dragging him back down until he was on level with the two Twilight Messengers. He struggled in the grip, but it was far too tight. Daishenka looked over him and shook his head. "What happened, Zant? You used to be intelligent! Lady Midna has left you off with this sort of thing far too much… why did you not think that one day you would do it one too many times?" He shook his head, and the clapped Daishan on the shoulder. The other Messenger fluidly removed himself from his grasp, bowing slightly to him. Daishenka did not seem to take offence. "Can you deal with this, Daishan?"

He did not wait for a reply, and simply walked away. Zant was left alone with Daishan, who gazed at him with searing red eyes. Zant returned his stare with his own luminous one, and eventually the half-blood looked away, taking out one of his knives as he did so. Zant's eyes flew wide, but that did not stop the Twilight Messenger from approaching.

The first incision against his hair caused Zant to scream out, even though no blood or any vital fluids flew from it. He could feel his powers, though, his status, disappearing with every lock that fell, thickly, to the floor. He began to writhe, twitching his head back and forth to avoid Daishan's weapon, but the half-Sheikah eventually seized the hair and cut it so close to Zant's scalp that there appeared to be none left. Zant screeched as he did so – the pain was unbearable – how could the Messengers ever cut their hair – how could anyone withstand –

Daishan stepped back, holding the last long lock of hair in his faintly glowing hands, and then let if fall to the floor with the others, where it lost the ethereal shimmer and turned a dead, dark orange in colour. Zant's head felt awfully light now that the thick strands were gone, and he also felt suddenly helpless. To him, that had been another limb – as useful as a hand or a foot or an arm or a leg. It had been a conduit for his magical powers. It had been a mark of his status. Now… now it was simply… gone. He looked up at Daishan, and saw nothing but flatness in his look; it was simply another job to him. He hissed at him, a bizarre yowling sound, and bared his teeth in a small form of defiance. The other male simply looked at him, and then held up a needle, with a very long, very thick, very unnatural looking white thread looped through it.

He approached Zant, reached up with his free hand to hold his head firmly – almost as if he was going in for a kiss, and rested the point of the needle against his lower lip. Zant quivered, knowing he could do nothing other than brace himself for the sudden burst of pain as the needle punctured his flesh…

It came far too strongly for someone who had been bracing himself for it. Daishan left no space for him to get used to the pain as he punched the needle in and out of his lip, dragging the thread through the open wound, and then pinching Zant's upper lip with his ring and little finger before thrusting the pointed end of the needle through that as well. He knotted the thread and dragged it through, and even though he was working quickly, Zant felt those actions stretch for a lifetime of pure agony. His blood bubbled around the thread and began to ooze slowly from his mouth, dripping past his teeth and down his chin. The needle was tipped with his blood as Daishan left that string and moved onto creating another stitch, drawing Zant's lips together, though he left the threads slack enough for him to open and close his mouth, as though they would still allow him to speak. He knew that that was not the case as the young man reached into Zant's mouth and pushed the needle through his tongue as well, punching through and drawing the light purple muscle up to meet his lips and tightening the string, ignoring the way that bile filled his mouth. Zant was not screaming, but he could not help but make hideous gurgling noises around the horrible, viscous mixture of blood and bile in his throat, which was seeping from his mouth and dribbling down him.

Daishan pulled the last stitch through his mouth, and then knotted the shining white thread. He was not done yet, however; he reached into his cowl and pulled out a small bottle of a heady blue potion, and dripped it onto the puncture wounds. It hissed and stung, but already Zant's wounds had begun to heal, the flesh and muscle healing over the seemingly unbreakable thread, making it as much a part of his mouth as his own teeth were. It was over in merely ten or twenty minutes, even though it had seemed too long a time. The Twilight Messenger stepped back and the hand released Zant. He scrambled, reaching out the touch his hair on the floor, feeling it sticky with his bile and blood. He was disgraced. Blasphemy against Midna, blasphemy against their god had done this to him. He had lost all of his standing, lost everything, even his ability to speak, even his grace and dignity – he couldn't even spit the remnants of the bloodied vomit from his mouth.

A low moan, oddly keening, escaped his throat, and he lurched up, dashing from the room as quickly as he could, covering his face with his hands and wailing all the way. Daishan did nothing to stop him fleeing. It seemed that nobody cared where he went at all.

Zant did not stop running until he was at the edge of the Palace of Twilight, where he threw himself down and screamed, screamed out to the gods, to the one he had abandoned, to anyone who would listen – to the Twilight itself, even. He flailed, beating upon the ground his fists, trying to utter a prayer of some kind but his tongue unable to move without causing great agony. He covered his face once more and gave a hard, dry, wrenching sob, and then looked up to the skies again.

A god looked back down at him.


End file.
